Let me choose for you
by prosto666
Summary: I stared down at my scraped knees, blinked back the rising sting in my eyes and wondered when I was going to wake up, found myself thinking desperately, pathetically; why us-me. The pale hand offered to me was a silent invitation into darkness, and the face it belonged to could only be the fallen angel himself. I took it anyways.
1. Prolouge

**Let me Choose for you-I'm the only choice you have.**

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**Prologue**

**Those that are called.**

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_It's getting late_

_And I Cannot seem to find my way home tonight_

_ Feels like I am falling down a rabbit hole_

_ Falling for forever, wonderfully wandering alone_

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><p>It was a Wednesday.<p>

Not an important or impressionable day in the grand scheme of things, but the day that would be the ultimate catalyst of the things to come-the very ones that would change our lives forever-nonetheless.

And I was going to just let it ring

I balanced Clara on my hip as she fussed-tiny fist shoved in her wailing mouth, stretched open pink and loud as she sobbed-stumbled over her scattering of toys out into the hall and hurried towards the kitchen. I ran my free hand through my hair, swore under my breath and stomped over the hardwood floors.

"Daniel, can you get the phone!" I hollered-no response. I ground my teeth, Clara twisted in my arms and flailed her legs in a feeble attempt to escape. It had been a back aching, head pounding kind of day where _nothing _was going right, that just needed to end already, and god_damnit_ I wanted to crawl back into bed and be dead to the world. If only. I woke up late, burned breakfast, left the laundry outside all night, and for the love of everything holy I couldn't get Clara to stop _crying_. I silently prayed Naemen would get home quick, so he and Gus could relieve me from babysitting duty before I lost it completely. I was just about to tear the hair from my scalp in sizeable chunks, juggling a screaming four year old while simultaneously trying to locate her favorite stuffed dog-it usually did the trick, but the damn thing had conveniently disappeared-when the phone rang.

I passed the living room, paused, and stiffened. The _little_-

"Daniel" I hissed, and he looked up from his perch on the sofa. His thumbs worked the controller in his hands, killing digital enemies on the screen with practiced ease.

"I'm busy, you get it." He shrugged, smirked smugly and turned back to his game. I responded with a few choice words of my own, gave him the best 'I'll get you later' look, that he didn't even see, and hurried to the kitchen. I couldn't find the phone at first, but with a quick sweep, finally saw the blinking red light in the sea of dirty pots, discarded cereal boxes and Daniels math homework. I lunged for it, Clara pulled on my hair in protest, and scooped it up before it could stop ringing.

"Hello?" I answered breathlessly, bounced Clara and leaned against the counter-barely resisted the urge to bang my head repeatedly against the cupboard door.

"Is this the York residence?" In the living room Daniel cheered, followed by the sound of musical triumph as his game announced he had successfully cleared the level. I frowned.

"Yes, it is."

"Who am I speaking with?" For a moment my mind went pathetically blank, distracted, my name slipped away-Clara shrieked and pounded a hand against my shoulder.

"Uh, Evan-Evangeline York. Who is this?" There was a slight pause on the other side, and this sudden heaviness settled on top of my stomach like a giant bird on a power line. Talons and all.

"This is Officer Turner. Miss York, I'm-I'm afraid I have some bad news. Your parents have-"

Daniel cursed at the screen, I could imagine the pinched, irritated look on his face, but I was instantly miles away-pulled out of my body, yanked down through the floor and gone. The room turned to white noise, Clara buried her snotty face in my neck and the weight of the phone pressed against my cheek was a hot iron.

I was going to just let it ring.

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><p><strong>.<strong>

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What would my head be like

If not for my shoulders

Or without your smile

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	2. Chapter 1

**Let me choose for you-it's that easy**

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**Chapter One **

**Smoke and fragile things**

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_Hey brother, there's an endless road to rediscover_

_Hey sister, know the waters sweet, but blood is thicker_

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><p>"You can't stay in here forever. Its starting to stink."<p>

A beat of silence, I shifted my weight and let my shoulder lean more fully against the door.

"Fuck you."

I sighed, closed my eyes and half heartedly debated if I should try again or just walk away. I didn't think my patience could take much more of standing there like an idiot, but I kept coming back anyways. Soft footsteps behind me, and something flicked me in the back of the head. I looked up with narrowed eyes as Naemen passed, shoving his hand back in his jean pocket. The dark bags under his eyes had gotten baggier and I was pretty sure he had worn that same shirt for the last three days.

"Stop wasting your time. If he's gonna act like an ass, then let him." He yawned, his voice sounded like worn sandpaper. I wanted to fire off some witty retort, some clipped remark on how at least I care, try-but, in his own twisted sort of way, that's what he wanted and It wouldn't help anything. Instead, I remind myself of my new role as the responsible mother figure, who could no longer go around picking fights and simply shrugged.

"Shouldn't you be helping Gus with the car." He saw the irritation, the weak defenses through my flat words, and lifted his shoulders, his eyes flashing to mine for a second and he looked angry. _Coward_.

"He's got it." Then he disappeared down the stairs. _Great_. What happened _now_-it seemed their infantile, not to mention completely ridiculous feud was still alive and strong_. _The spot above my heart ached, I glared at the space he had been, secretly wishing I had said something nasty after all, then turned my attention back to the poster covered door that had been repeatedly slammed in my face these last five months. Today had been no different.

"Seriously Danny, cut the crap. You'd better come down for dinner tonight." I did my best to sound enforcing, hoped I did a good imitation of Gus, but really it was borderline pleading. No response this time, but I didn't expect there to be. Pressing my forehead against the doorframe, I squinted my eyes, hoping maybe-maybe if I did it hard enough, I'd be able to see inside. See my younger brother spread eagle on his unmade bed, staring guilt ridden and ashamed at the ceiling, ready to shot to his feet, fling the door open and rush into my arms. But knew, I stopped myself from laughing bitterly, that was more than likely the exact _opposite _from what he was actually doing. He was probably on his phone, headphones on, music turned up so loud that it was past the point of enjoyment and just for the sake of keeping me out. I waited another minute, knowing he knew I was still there, incase he said something else, but the hallway had turned eerily quiet, almost physically heavy. My lips brushed the air in a silent murmur.

"Please."

I didn't know if I actually heard the shuffle of movement just on the other side of the door as I descended the steps or not, but either way I wrote it off as nothing more than my hopeful imagination.

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><p><em>Oh if the sky comes falling down<em>

_for you_

_ there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do_

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><p>The funeral was nice-well, as nice as funerals could get.<p>

It was a bright, sunny day that felt wrong in every way, and I had spent the remaining hours before the service wondering how I could get the rest of the world to reflect how I felt inside. Black and afraid. Pointless, and pathetic, yes, but anything to keep the beguiling numbness from consuming me. It nipped at my heels, and loomed over overhead like a brewing storm cloud-I walked in its suffocating shadow across the cemetery with careful, measured footsteps. Like the slightest crack could send me tumbling into oblivion.

It was just too damn bright.

Family I didn't even know I had, or cared, showed up-pity themed theater masks that all ended up blending together into one big, mocking face that danced around in my head. I held Clara close to my chest, like she would be called as an offering at any moment, to throw her in the pit with my parents. I clutched her like a lifeline. I watched, rooted in place like a wilting tree-the pale, grim faces of my brothers as they dutifully assisted the pallbearers. I determinedly-religiously-ignored the way their hands shook, how their eyes shimmered and trembled. They were torn in two, I could see it from where I stood a few feet away, different factions raged war in their heads-lowering our parents into the ground and wanting to pull them back out.

The floral arrangements on the oak caskets were beautiful-yellow daisies, snow with lilies, red roses, lavender stalks, and I used that as my anchor. In the sea of black suits and tears, it was refreshingly out of place-a glimmer of oppressed light. I let everything else bleed away, and kept my eyes on the flowers until they disappeared from view, swallowed up my six feet of brown soil.

And then it was just the five of us and two silent headstones.

I held Clara in one arm, and Naemen's hand with the other. It felt like we were looking at someone else's graves, strangers and not our parents. But the names carved on their stony faces was a swift punch to the gut, a knife that sawed back and forth with a dull edge, that shoved me gracelessly into a cold reality. As we stood there, huddled together despite the warm weather, I listened to the edges of my world chip away-heard the sound they made, like glass on tile, like gunfire as they fell like imaginary snowflakes around us.

Funny how the death of your loved ones can turn you into a fucking poet.

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><p><em>Hey brother, do you still believe in one another<em>

_Hey, sister, do you still believe in love I wonder_

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><p>"C'mon Clara, open up. Its applesauce, your <em>favorite<em>." I cooed, pressed my lips together and hummed happily, but her mouth remained stubbornly closed. I nudge the spoon playfully against it, didn't let my cheery smile falter, and continued to sell it as the best thing in the world. She only turned her head away and squirmed angrily in her highchair. Naemen snorted into his coffee, but I ignored him and tried the choo choo train approach. When mom did it, she loved it. Now, she looked at me with surprisingly sad eyes for a four year old.

First it was talking. A week after the funeral, she stopped crying, grew more quiet, then fell silent altogether. The doctors said it was natural for someone her age to do after such a traumatic experience, and she should grow out of it within a couple weeks. That had been four months ago, and it was honestly starting to scare me. I could recall times where I would've sold my soul to the devil just to get her to shut up, now I would give anything to hear her laugh, look up at me with her big blue eyes and butcher my name in her own adorable way-'Wevan'.

Now she wouldn't eat. It was an exhausting battle most days, that usually ended with mashed food stuffs all over the floor and me giving her a bath-with more fighting. The doctors said she'd grow out of that too. What if she didn't? What if she _never _got better? A poisonous voice whispered this to me every time I looked at her, at the noticeable lack of rosiness in her cheeks, her haunting, troubled stare. It was a constant worry that lurked in the back of my mind, growing bolder and bolder every day that, along with everything else going on, was slowly taking years off of my life. I'd have gray hairs at twenty.

I tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear, took an encouraging bite of applesauce for Clara, and shot my twin brother a tired glare.

"Why don't _you _give it a try then." He raised an eyebrow over the rim of his mug.

"I'll pass." I managed to get the spoon past her lips, put most of it dribbled down her chin.

"Then shut up."

Gus entered the kitchen dressed for work, the back of his shirt uncharacteristically un-tucked, and I greeted him with a tired, distracted good morning. He responded with one of his own, and I don't what tipped me off. Maybe the slope off his shoulders, the red in his eyes or the tightness around his mouth. The shadows that hid under his skin, but mostly it was something inside of me that I could explain, that just _knew_.

He'd been drinking.

Clara smacked the spoon out of my hand, it hit the side of the highchair then clattered to the linoleum floor. I bent down, intent on putting it in the sink and throwing in the towel, when another hand beat me to it. Gus looked even worse up close-stubble and dull blue eyes-and it was like a bucket of ice water to the face. It was almost like seeing your reflection in a mirror. It was terrifying, unsettling. Surely this transformation didn't just happen overnight, how could I have missed it? Another bucket of water as he handed me the spoon, quickly kissed the side of my head and left without another word-and I realized I didn't, I had just _chosen _to ignore it.

Naemen excused himself, and I was left with Clara and a full cup of applesauce.

The demons don't play fair.

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><p><em>What if I'm far from home<em>

_oh brother I will hear you call_

_what if I lose it all_

_oh sister I will help you out_

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><p>I bit the inside of my cheek, bitterly determined not to scream or let the molten lava in my eyes escape, and pressed the ice pack against Naemen's cheek. He had been glaring darkly at the far wall, but now he looked vacantly over my shoulder, almost lost. He refused to speak to me, which was fine since I had nothing to say to him anyways. He licked at his split lip and a wayward auburn curl fell in his face. The edges of his face looked even sharper in the fading light that reached through the window. The warm orange rays made his hazel eyes glow.<p>

"You're such a dumbass." Neamen's face pinched.

"Tell that to the Bastard that swung first." His eye was already beginning to swell with angry shades of red and purple. I handed him another tissue for his leaking nose. A dozen or so lay red stained and discarded beside him.

"You antagonized him on purpose. What did you _think _was going to happen?" I didn't like the way my voice dipped and caught, like running a hand over a rocky creek bank. It burned and made me sound old. _Breathe_.

"He deserved it."

"..."

He took the ice pack from my hand, ducked his head and slide of the counter. It was hard not go after him, or hit him myself, but I managed to stand there by the sink and not cry as he left through the back door. I come home from grocery shopping to find a broken lamp, a few toppled chairs and a battered, bloodied Naemen. Not the way I wanted my Saturday to end. I picked up the tissues and bandages he didn't let me use and just threw it all away, along with the red ceramic shards that use to be our living room lamp. I put a kettle on the stove, and resolved to sit and wait at the table-all damn night if I had too-knowing he'd come home eventually. It was just like him to run off after doing something like this. He rarely got angry, but when he did, it was best for everyone to give him space and let the steam dissipated.

It was three hours and five cups of tea later when the front door opened.

Gus hesitated just inside the threshold, glanced around, until his eyes fell on me in the kitchen and he stepped fully inside. Naemen had gotten a few good punches in himself. There was a inch long gash of Gus's cheekbone and red abrasions on his chin-the bridge of his nose was a puffy stripe of pink and blue water colors. He set his jacket on the couch and approached me slowly, looking around again.

"He here?"

"No. He left." He nodded and sat down across from me. He didn't smell like alcohol, but I still wasn't reassured he hadn't gone and done something stupid. I distantly recalled a time he would've never been caught dead drinking, when he was still put together-back when we were all but together. I felt my throat constrict and flutter. I clutched my cold mug. The silence was physically heavy, as timid and frantic as a rabbit.

"You didn't have to punch him."

"I know."

"So why did you?"

"I don't know." I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth to keep the irritation from bursting past my lips. _Breathe_.

"You shouldn't let him get to you." He shows his first signs of emotion, his fist curls on the table.

"Like you don't get into it with Danny every other day." The mug had spiked in temperature under my fingers, and the teeth grinding thing wasn't working.

"You're the oldest."

"Thanks for the reminder."

"You seem to always need one now a days."

"I don't want to do this with you right now, please." I stood to put my cup in the sink. The liquid inside untouched.

"I prefer this to you beating the crap out of your own brother." I didn't know my voice could sound so cold and mean. His chair scrapes against the floor in a loud screech. I flinched.

"Christ Evan, you're acting like I came out of know where and just starting _attacking _him. He was the one that came and started it, _not _me. _Don't _defend him." He hissed vehemently. I didn't turn around, afraid the tears would come if I did. Swallow, _breathe_.

"I _know_, but you _are _the oldest and should know better. I mean geez Gus, did you even _try _to stop." I said, and I could hear him snort under his breath in disbelief. I wanted the floor to open up and eat me, to disappear again. A part of my mind absently remarked this was where I stood when the phone rang. My thumb started tracing lazy, anxious circles on the handle of my mug.

"You have to ask? _Christ_." A bang as he hits his chair, then he turns and stomps out the door again. It slams and the dam breaks. So does the snoopy mug, but I don't bother to pick it up this time. I doubted anyone would notice.

_Breathe_.

That would be the last time I'd stand in our kitchen.

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><p><em>Oh if the sky comes falling down<em>

_for you_

_there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do_

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><p>Tom tightened his fingers around the worn leather strap of his shoulder bag and glanced over his shoulder.<p>

Nothing but the empty ally and swirling flecks of snow. He frowned, his other hand drifted to the wand hidden in the pocket of his trousers, but nothing happened. He couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, something made the hairs on the back of his neck dance, but decided to write it of as nothing more than a long days worth of tired nerves and irrational paranoia. A pale hand tucked his slate gray scarf closer to his face, braced himself against the biting cold, and set off down the street-turning the corner and disappearing in the crowd. Borgin and Burkes a darkened hole in the wall behind him.

Another day, another step closer.

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><p><em>Hey brother, there's an endless road to rediscover<em>

_Hey sister, do you still believe in love I wonder_

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